My Own Prison
by John Steiner
Summary: Ouor prison. My prison. Our Prison.


My own Prison

Sometimes the only prisons we encounter in our lives are the prisons we build with our own minds.

Every day the walls of Rhim's cell seemed to shrink, his fortress, his prison, closing in around him, trapping his mind and soul into cramped places from which it would never escape. Rhim's bloodshot eyes shifted from corner to corner, his paranoia commanding him to constantly check for any change, and subtle difference in his surroundings, any threat could be the end of his life, and bring ruin to a life's work of plans. Rhim turned to his cellmate, and best friend, eyeing him to make sure he was still human, then spoke in the soft tone in which they had always discussed their escape plans.

"Hey, Brye, do you think today could be the day? I think we could make our move today. I can feel it, right here."

Rhim would have motioned to the point on his chest where his heart lay, if his hands weren't chained to a chair.

"These stupid manacles. Hey Brye! Yesterday it was my birthday! Can you believe it! It was my birthday! And god gave me a gift see!"

Rhim held up the broken fragments of a spoon, its silver coating half degraded, and its splintered ends lay in pieces in Rhim's scarred palm. These, Rhim thought, were the tools of a master. Rhim knew this day would come before it was his time to die. This was his final chance to break free, his sole opportunity to rid himself and Brye of this awful place. Years of quiet, isolated darkness were about to come to an end. Rhim could still remember the faces of the beasts, which captured him. Mangled abominations of human beings, Rhim could hardly believe a god would have the heart to create such beasts. Their faces shifted with in-explicable movements, their bodies always seemed to change, but never into something vaguely pleasant.

Slowly, as though he were being secretly observed, Rhim undid his manacles with on of the fragments of the spoon. He dug deep into their metalwork functions, and flipped the tiny, precious switch, freeing his arms and legs from their positions.

"Arrrgh" Rhim muttered, rubbing his wrists. Slight but jabbing pains annoyed every nerve in his wrists and ankles. He had been in that place much too long. 

Rhim grabbed hold of Brye's chest, whom did not resist, nor help, nor speak a word. He never did. Brye's body was unexpectedly light and cool, but Rhim had long forgotten what human contact felt like, thus he never minded the awkward feeling. Rhim rushed to the barred wall, and quickly picked the small lock, which was hanging around the otherwise open door. Funny, Rhim seemed to stub his fingers on bars that weren't there. Much too long. Much too long.

Footsteps echoed through the dungeon hallway, sounds of his retreat glancing off of lit torches, cages, and torture mechanisms. As Rhim ran, his feet stumbled on the fairly smooth floor, almost tripping Rhim, but he regained his balance quickly. Rhim stopped, for he observed one of his capturers, a monstrosity of humanity ahead of him. Rhim no longer felt the weight of Brye on his back; he no longer worried of the sores on his wrists, all he felt then, was revenge. An uncontrolled anger flung Rhim at his target, Rhim stabbing the spoon straight into the spine of the creature. It screamed, and Rhim smiled as the corpse fell to the floor, it's blood flowing down the sloping hallway, but almost by magic avoided his feet.

Much too long.

Rhim's eyes almost flushed tears when he spotted a door with daylight shining under the crack, lighting several feet of the prison floor before it. However, when he swung it open, he was only met with blades. Swords flashed, cutting open his chest and stomach. Rhim's vision blurred, his heart slowed it's beat, and his own blood flowing through his thin tunic. 

Guardsmen Khan examined the body of the man.

"This is very strange. It almost seems like self-torture. Look at this, this man has lacerations all over his wrists and ankles. He looked like he was carrying something, but there's nothing there. And look at this… a broken fork? What in gods name would a murderer be doing with a broken fork?"

"They say he ran out of the clerical house for the mentally ill, killed a nurse in the process too, right through the spine. Huh, not the first time this happened." Another militiaman expressed.

"Yeah, poor loons." Khan said as they walked away to leave the mess for the body-cleaners.

Rhim's last breaths were slowly exhaled from his bleeding lungs. His eyes observed the blue sky for the first time; his ears heard the chirping of summer birds. Words brought up by blood were projected to no other being than himself. "Free at last."


End file.
